


one wave short of a shipwreck

by palisadespalisades



Series: shipwreckverse [1]
Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, F/M, M/M, Minor Bill Denbrough/Mike Hanlon, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, bev is a lesbian, eddie and bill are best friends and nobody understands but its great i swear, eddie has a plan™, i wasn't going to make her one bc january embers but .. i had to, minor eddie kaspbrak/stan uris, shenanigans ensue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-17
Updated: 2017-12-11
Packaged: 2019-02-03 11:45:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12747663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/palisadespalisades/pseuds/palisadespalisades
Summary: The problem began when Eddie decided he was going to make out with Stan Uris. Make out, possibly take on some dates, maybe hook up — the details of what they’d do were still kind of up in the air, but Eddie was sure of one thing: to some degree, he was going to do Stan Uris.(Eddie wants to make out with Stan. Eddie doesn't actually know Stan, which poses a significant barrier on the making out front. He does know Stan's bandmate, Richie, though, and from that, he formulates a plan. Shenanigans ensue. Inspired by the music video for Shura's "What's It Gonna Be?")





	1. Chapter 1

The problem began when Eddie decided he was going to make out with Stan Uris. Make out, possibly take on some dates, maybe hook up — the details of what they’d do were still kind of up in the air, but Eddie was sure of one thing: to some degree, he was going to _do_ Stan Uris. He didn’t know Stan Uris well, but what he knew (in a very cool band, somewhat uptight, very smart, very tidy and _together_ ) he liked. He was absolutely certain they’d have great chemistry, and even if they just hooked up, it would be a great time.

Making out with Stan Uris wasn’t a problem in and of itself. Eddie was unattached and, as far as he knew, Stan was too. And he’d be fucked (or wouldn’t be, he supposed) if a boy with perfectly coiled hair and a full wardrobe of neatly-pressed pastel button ups didn’t like boys. And, to the shock and surprise of almost all of his friends, Eddie didn’t have any significant difficulties in getting boys to make out with him. Despite his short stature, he was a _pretty hot guy_. He was always pretty well-dressed, always had pretty nice hair, and, thanks to years of track and field and the training that came with it, had a _great_ ass. If he was a little high-strung, a bit of a clean freak, and kind of overbearing, well. That didn’t matter when it came to making out. It didn’t get Eddie a _boyfriend_ , per say, but if he wanted someone in his bed at the end of the night, he was more or less capable of making it happen.

So: he was single, Stan was single, he was gay, Stan was… probably gay, and they were both hot. It was nearly a perfect situation, just steps from being cut-and-dry; the problem in this scheme was, to Eddie’s great disappointment, that he hadn’t spoken to Stan since they had a first year accounting class together (that Eddie dropped after a month). They were in their third year by then, and at that point, Eddie really only saw him in the library, or glances in the corners of his eye at parties. It didn’t stop his sudden and inexplicable desire to make out with him — if anything, it only made him _more_ determined. It wasn’t just a crush, it was a _challenge_. Eddie wasn’t great at meeting challenges head-on, as a general rule. He couldn’t remember the last time the fight instinct overpowered flight. But, if nothing else, Eddie Kaspbrak was a bullheaded, stubborn motherfucker, and he liked to get what he wanted.

So, as any high-strung high school-high achiever would, Eddie made a plan. It was, quite possibly, his best plan ever.

“This? Is the duh-d-dumbest thing I’ve ev-v-ver heard in my fucking _l-l-life._ ”

“Okay, but, like, it’s not though, right? It’s actually really smart. It’s a great idea.” Eddie’s self-satisfied smile faltered for a moment, brows creasing at Bill — Bill being his roommate (in a very literal sense). Bill had grown up with Eddie, not unlike a rash, and when they’d moved to the city for college, they decided to get a place together instead of bothering with dorms. So excited to live together, they were blind to the realities of renting in a big city — thinking a 300-sq. ft. studio apartment would be an okay place to share (for their budget, at least), they ended up living in a shoebox. When they couldn’t fit two double beds into the apartment, they opted to go for one king-sized. For some reason, that Eddie had yet to determine and was even farther from understanding, they had gone on with it for the three years they’d been in college thus far, and would probably continue to graduation (or longer). It was a ridiculous situation, and it meant that they were basically married, but Eddie hated Bill with his whole gay heart, and one of them had to sleep in the bathtub whenever the other wanted to have someone over, in the biblical sense. It worked out alright.

 “It’s stupid. And… duh-d-don’t you think it’s a l-little… manipulative?” Bill asked, and Eddie stared at him, blank-faced.

“Yeah, _duh_. Don’t you think _I’m_ a little manipulative? It’s fine.” His plan, as he had explained to Bill, was: find a way to Stan through the only lead he had, a jackass-loudmouth-dipshit in his _Economies of Sex_ class. Did he particularly like the jackass-loudmouth-dipshit in his _Economies of Sex_ class? No, he did not. But, unfortunately (and, somehow, _conveniently_ ), that jackass-loudmouth-dipshit was named Richie Tozier, and he was the frontman for Stan’s cool band. So they were, like, _friends_ , or whatever. He was also Eddie’s best chance at actually talking to Stan without having to physically stalk him. That bug-eyed asshole was Eddie’s one-way ticket to Stan Uris’ pants — and Eddie was going to swallow his dislike, and befriend him, so he could make it happen, because Eddie Kaspbrak made things _fucking happen_. “What am I going to do, hurt his _feelings_? It’s just Rich Tozier. I’m not entirely sure if he has an amygdala — that’s the part of the brain that controls emotions — there’s like a solid 80% chance that it’s just fart jokes or something equally juvenile. I don’t think I could hurt him if I tried. What could go wrong?”

“You’re very manipulative. And — a l-lot of things could go w-wr-wrong, Eddie.” Bill was frowning at him now, and Eddie’s own smirk had entirely dropped off his face, now replaced with a soured kind of frown — as much as he loved Bill, he hated what a good, moral person he was. It was kind of disgusting. Eddie Kaspbrak did not have time for that kind of _softness_. He was a communications major — _basically_ a marketer. That meant he didn’t have a heart.

“It’ll be fine. I’m going to ask Richie to get coffee after class, no biggie. God, Bill, you’re acting like I’m trying to make him fall in love with me and then crush his little heart up. I’m not a fucking _supervillain_ , I’m just trying to fuck his friend. It’s not unreasonable.” With that, Eddie kicked off the covers and rolled out of bed, Bill curling into the warm dent he left in his stead. Bill was his best friend, but he was also so dramatic sometimes — after all, Eddie’s plan, while convoluted, made sense. It was going to go as planned.

…

Eddie knew that his plan was not going to go as planned when he walked into the classroom and saw the words “GROUP PROJECT” scrawled across the chalkboard. Before anything else, a flash of mind-numbing anxiety crossed him. He had all of one friend in high school, who rarely ended up in his classes, and even though he was a fairly well-adjusted, socially-accepted young adult, the primal kind of fear associated with being the one not picked for a group project never left. But when he took a deep breath and moved through the doorway, letting the terror pass, he was struck by an idea: _this_ was how he could entangle himself into Richie Tozier’s (and thus, Stan Uris’s) life. He would sacrifice his sanity, and partner up with Richie.

Honestly, the group project starting this day really worked out in Eddie’s favour. His original plan was vague at best, and included: asking Richie for coffee, becoming his best friend, making out with Stan Uris. He didn’t really have any of the details in-between worked out. This could bridge the gap between _never having spoken with Richie before_ and _going to get coffee_. So, instead of taking his regular seat, he sat in the one typically unoccupied directly beside Richie’s normal spot, and waited.

And waited.

Ten minutes into class, Eddie was starting to wonder if Richie was going to show up. Twenty minutes into class, he started to question if the man existed at all — or if he was just an unpleasant figment of his imagination, constructed from boredom. Twenty-five minutes into class, Eddie was pretty sure that even if Richie _was real_ and he _did show up_ , he didn’t want to work with him anyways. Still, when they were doing sign-ups, and the prof asked the class if anyone would pair with the absent Richie Tozier, Eddie raised his stupid, stupid hand.

He made it eventually, flying through the door at the half-hour mark (of an hour-long class), with a lopsided kind of grin that made Eddie _hate_ him, and dropped into his chair, throwing the professor a lofty two-fingered salute. “Sorry, Prof, I got caught up — you know what? It doesn’t even matter. _Proceed_.” The prof frowned at him, shook her head for a moment, but continued nonetheless, and Eddie took a deep breath, glancing over at Richie again. He was wearing jorts, in the middle of November. There was frost on the ground.

Eddie didn’t know how he could possibly talk to him like he was a real, human person, worthy of dignity and respect.

 _Stan_ , he reminded himself. _Those eyes. Those **hands**. Goddamn guitar player fingers_. “Psst. Hey. Why the fuck were you so late?” Richie turned to Eddie, eyes narrowing, magnified behind those massive glasses. He smirked, facing the front of the class again, speaking through the corner of his mouth.

“Fell asleep on the subway.”

“Why are you smirking like you’re _proud_ of it? You’ve wasted a solid five minutes of all of our time, and probably, like, $40 of your tuition money, probably more. Jesus Christ. You missed the _entire_ explanation of the group project. We’re working together, by the way. And we’re getting coffee after class, so I can actually lay shit out for you.”

“What?” He cocked his head to the side, looking like Eddie had smacked him in the face.

“We’re working together. I’m Eddie, by the way.”

“I know who you are, but what the hell are you talking about—” His voice had raised above a whisper, and the professor shot him such a sharp look that it stopped even Richie in his tracks. With a cheeky, pointed grin, he nodded at the prof. “Sorry!”

“Coffee later. Jimmy’s on Baldwin. Does 3:30 work?”

“I — sure. Jesus.”

…

Nearly an hour following their conversation, Eddie was sitting in a coffee shop, table claimed, staring at his watch. 3:26. Richie was almost certainly going to be late. Eddie was late to most things most of the time, save for classes, so he couldn’t possibly judge, but he was anyways — the kind of attitude with which people like him approached lateness, after all, was vastly superior to the attitude people like Richie took. Richie was smug, entitled to another person’s time. Eddie was apologetic — _‘I’m late because of who I am as a person, but I really am sorry for making you deal with it.’_ This time, he was ten minutes early, because he had practically sprinted from class to Jimmy’s. Twisting the sleeve of his drink (Green jasmine — any drink with more caffeine than tea was officially banned from Eddie’s life and the Kaspbrak-Denbrough household after the premier of The Force Awakens), he wondered if Richie would show up at all. Eddie wasn’t one to hesitate before making a bad decision, necessarily, but he was _certainly_ one to fret over it for weeks afterwards. He had said he was going to show, but he’d also looked pretty shaken up at all of Eddie’s demands, and Eddie _was_ a demanding person, and it scared a lot of people off. And, while he didn’t particularly care how Richie Tozier, who probably only took _Economies of Sex_ because it had the word _sex_ in the name, felt about him, it complicated things a great deal if he decided he wasn’t a fan. 1: Eddie would _never_ get to make out with Stan, if that were to happen. 2: He would have to latch onto a group late, or wade through the project on his own, and that would _suck_.

But, to his great amazement and surprise, at 3:29 one Richie Tozier threw the door open and breezed through, still wearing those stupid jorts.

“Sorry, sorry!” he called, across _literally_ the whole café. Eddie bared his teeth in a not-quite-grin and waved back. “I made it though, right? I’m on time. Oh, shit — coffee. I’m gonna get a coffee. I’ll be there in a hot minute.” As Richie moved closer to their table, Eddie felt something akin to a sense of doom encroach upon him. After all, it wasn’t just a group project with anyone, it was _Richie Tozier_. And it wasn’t just that this meeting had a lot riding on it — namely 10% of their grade and any chance Eddie had of getting with Stan Uris, bar a miracle — but Richie was a little infamous. Some kind of improve prodigy, which meant that he was deeply beloved in the acting department and deeply hated everywhere else. In Eddie’s own experience, Richie Tozier was not necessarily a fantastic comedian, but he was a fantastic nuisance. He suspected that, to some extent, Richie’s successes elsewhere came mostly from the sheer volume of output, because he’d never spent a class with Richie where the man hadn’t cracked at least three inane jokes, made at least two useless comments, and added another bullet to the list of ways he’d earned the professor’s ire. Annoying Eddie and wasting everyone’s time — that was just the partridge on the pear tree, it seemed. At the same time, a nagging voice in the corner of his mind asked what Richie could possibly think of Eddie — quiet, demanding, who stewed in the front of the class in silence for fifty minutes every single lecture, save for short quips that he could only hope were to-the-point and insightful, but he feared might’ve been vague and confusing instead.

Richie dropped down in the seat in front of him, though, effectively drawing him out of his head. He had some massive, sickly-sweet smelling abomination sitting in front of him — his ‘coffee’, presumably, and an ever-present smirk twisted onto his lips. “So, Eddie. Eds. What are we up to? What’s happening?” Eddie’s nostrils flared involuntarily, twisting the sleeve of his drink with increased speed and aggression.

“ _Just_ Eddie is good, thanks. And we have to do a presentation on one of the chapters, or some bullshit like that. It’s not going to be that hard, but your ass is stuck with me because you weren’t fucking… in class for the sign ups. I need this project to go well, because I care about my education, so. We aren’t going to just bullshit this. Like, there needs to be _some_ degree of effort put into this.”

There were several points during his little rant that Eddie was certain Richie was going to try and interrupt, but each time those curved lips started to part, he narrowed his eyes and spoke faster. The result was Richie opening and closing his mouth like a fish for several beats following the conclusion, and Eddie going so fast he almost tripped over his words.

“Can you, like, chill? Just a little bit.” His voice had a quality to it that Eddie had only really heard from Bill before — a kind sort of sternness, where the words were not necessarily soft, but there was a lightness behind them. It actually managed to stun Eddie into silence, his eyes dropping to his cup. He took a shaky sip of the tea, and met Richie’s eyes again. “Okay, cool.  Thank you, Eddie. Just Eddie? Come on. The nickname potential there is _huge_.” Eddie bared his teeth again, in another not-smile. “Come on, Eds. Eddalicious. Tedward? Listen, I’ll find one you like sometime. And dude, don’t worry, like, even a little bit. This project’s going to be _smooooth_ sailing. You’re on the Tozier train, baby, it’s all good.”

“Trains don’t fucking sail, smartass.” Still, his anger had largely dissipated (even with the Tedward nonsense; Eddie was the _only_ acceptable nickname, save for his mother’s Eddie-bear, and he _never_ let it slip) and he was halfway to cracking a smile, to his chagrin. There was something a little magnetic about Richie, and he _hated_ it, but it would also make this whole ordeal a little more bearable. “Well,” he said, digging through his bag, getting his ancient laptop and heavily-annotated textbook, “let’s get started.”

It was actually pretty easy to get into the flow of working with Richie — for all of his idiocy, he wasn’t actually that stupid. Tasks were delegated (by Eddie, of course), and Richie took them on with little complaint. Eddie sipped his tea and puttered away quietly, Richie took ridiculous swigs of his ridiculous coffee, worked in bursts and chattered in-between, and it wasn’t nearly as bad as Eddie had worked himself up into thinking it would be. After all, Richie was just a person. A person with an incredibly big mouth and an endless stream of commentary to spill from it, but a person nevertheless — and he was a person that Eddie could see himself actually being friends with in a genuine way. He hoped Stan was like this, too.

After an hour and a half — longer than Eddie had planned on sticking around, but time had gotten away from him — he had long finished his first tea, and his second, and his brain was finally fried. He closed his laptop, and smiled at Richie from across the table. Richie, for his part, stopped his rattling monologue, looking up at Eddie in surprise.

“Going already?”

“Yeah, I’ll be off. Dinner with the ol’ ball and chain.” Richie raised his eyebrow, though Eddie decided to ignore it — few people understood the nature of his relationship with Bill, and he didn’t feel like explaining it to a new acquaintance. “We should do this again sometime.” He raised his eyebrow higher, and this time, Eddie felt his cheeks heat up slightly. “ _Working_. We could probably bang this out in a couple hours — I’m going to quit while I’m ahead.”

Richie chuckled. In the quickly-fading afternoon light, Eddie noticed just how many freckles he had — lots, apparently. Cute. “See ya later, Ned. Ned Stark. Game of Thrones? Ned’s a nickname for Edward — no?” Eddie rolled his eyes, groaning.

“It’s Eddie.”

“Well, Eddie-dear, it’s been swell.” He was putting on some kind of funny accent — not one that Eddie could place, maybe a vague approximation of a Southern Belle, but it didn’t stop his lips from quirking into a half-smile. “Say, my band’s having a gig at Wonderland Records tomorrow night. You should come. Bring the missus, too. It’ll be a grand ol’ time.”

Eddie’s ears perked up at the mention of _band_ and _gig_. After all, _Stan_ was in the band, and would thusly be at the gig. He stopped packing his backpack for a moment, pausing to flash Richie a small smile, nose scrunched up a bit. “Sounds fun. I’ll be there. What kind of music do you play?”

“Ever heard of the Mountain Goats? We sound kinda like that, but also, different. Why, what kind of music do you like?”

Eddie shrugged, slinging on his backpack and stepping away from the table. “Eighties’ synth-pop is always good. Love me some Duran Duran. Catch you later, Richie.”

Plans had changed, but they were marching forward either way, and Eddie could only see them going well — he was getting along great with Richie, he was seeing Stan tomorrow night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> catch me @homokaspbrak on tumblr and lmk what you think!!
> 
> i'll try to update every thursday but uhhhh don't hold me 2 it


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eddie goes to a show and meets the band. It goes about as well as it possibly could, but that isn't saying much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> since i got finished a little early i thought i'd post today but uhhhh next week's update might b a little late since school kicks my Whole Ass

A fact few people knew about Eddie Kaspbrak, and one he rarely divulged: he _loved_ to cook. He wasn’t entirely sure why he didn’t tell people — it was one of those things that felt kind of _private_ , maybe. Something about Eddie that he kept just to himself.

Himself and Bill, of course. Living together, especially in a space so small, Eddie was pretty sure there wasn’t a single part of him left that Bill hadn’t seen — the man probably knew what the inside of his asshole looked like. Boundaries? Eddie and Bill didn’t know her. Still, it was nice; Eddie’s mother had been deeply overbearing, and he was happy he moved out when he did, but that kind of closeness was still important to him. He feared that, without someone knowing him so intimately, he’d feel a little lonely. As much as he complained about Bill, he loved him.

He rarely showed that love, his affection masked in nagging and bitching, but cooking was one of the few ways he managed it; that was why, after a very successful study session with Richie, he was standing in their little kitchen, lovingly making homemade dino-shaped chicken nuggets out of seitan. The project had taken him from when he’d parted with Richie at five to then, seven o’clock, and consumed the entire studio, from his mixing bowl and food processor (the lid of which had come undone, leaving a cloud of spices and bits of seitan floating in the corner like a ghost) to the yet-to-be-used, still-pristine breading station (three bread pans laid out neatly, that Eddie knew would be halfway to some kind of monster pastry by the time he was done), to his current station: a bowl of what he lovingly referred to as _ficken_ (fake-chicken) and several dinosaur cookie cutters. A labour of love indeed — it was a lot of fucking work. But he did it.

He was pressing out a line of stegosauri when the door cracked open. Eddie was curled into an unfolded folding chair, legs half-crossed, one foot grazing the floor. He spoke, but didn’t turn around — it was Bill, because they didn’t have friends, and nobody but their landlord had a key to the apartment. “Big Bill, guess what I’m making?”

“Nugs?” This part of the nugget process required intense focus, taking the shaped seitan from the mold and placing it onto the baking tray, but Eddie could hear him rustling around the room, propping a canvas up against the wall and dropping onto the bed.

“Nugs _indeed_.”

“Real nugs?”

“What do you think, genius?” Eddie’s love of cooking came mostly from a weird habit, developed in high school, of self-soothing through watching the Food network. He let it play in the background while he worked himself into anxiety-fuelled frenzies, and it ran, a gentle kind of white noise, while he calmed himself down. But it also developed out of necessity when he became a vegetarian in the 11th grade, and his mother refused to take the meat off his plate or out of her menu, shrilly insisting that _“A little boy like you needs to eat, Eddie. Don’t you want to grow up big and strong?”_ Both of them knew he was stuck at 5’4”, and neither of them budged. He cooked for himself after that — and that meant Bill had to eat vegetarian, because his avoidance of meat largely stemmed from the potential risks associated with meat consumption. Their apartment? A salmonella-free zone, _thank you_ _very much_. Bill had come to expect this, but sighed anyways.

“Tuh-t-TVP or suh-seitan?”

“Seitan. I’m not a monster.” He could almost hear Bill smile behind him, rolling around on his bed. “How was class?”

“Awful. I d-dumped a cup of p-paint water all duh-down my sh-sh-shirt. It’s buh-lue now.”

“You look good in blue.”

“How w-w-was the… coffee date with b-b-b-band buh-boy?”

“Bad day, Bill? And it wasn’t a date, but it actually went alright. Tozier is a dumbass, but he’s not stupid, so I won’t fail my Econ class... probably. Oh, and we’re working on a project together. Oh! And we’re — we being you and I — going to a show tomorrow. Stan and Richie’s band are playing at that record store near your campus.”

“It’s been a g-good day. Just… anxious.” He paused for a moment, and Eddie listened for the slow, deep breaths he’d grown accustomed to, signals that Bill was trying to slow it down and temper his stutter. Eddie didn’t mind — he had minded, when they were kids, and his head rolled so fast that it felt like Bill couldn’t keep up, but he’d learned that that wasn’t true in the least. Bill was just as quick as Eddie, it was just harder for him to get it through, so Eddie learned patience. Bill might’ve been the only person Eddie knew _how_ to be patient with. “And… what.”

“They’re playing at the record store. The one near your campus. We’re going, and I’m going to talk to Stan.”

“Are you g-going to m-m-m-make out with him?”

“If things go well, maybe. Cross your fingers. Are you going to get off your lazy ass and help me bread these nugs?” They’d done this dance before, and Bill got off the bed, taking the tray over to Eddie’s carefully organized station. “Thanks, babe. Good day?”

“Yeah. I m-met a cute buh-boy at the library. Got his number.”

Eddie beamed. It had been a while since Bill had put himself out there — not since the debacle with his last girlfriend. For all the shit he gave him, he really did love Bill, and he really did want to see the guy happy. Hopefully, library-boy would be nice. If he was a better friend, he’d have dug for more details, asked for more info on the mystery boy, but he wasn’t. Eddie, for all of his positive qualities, was a little bit selfish, and wanted to talk about his coffee-date-not-date and the show the next night and how Richie wasn’t _actually_ a dumbass (even if he kind of was).

He met in the middle, a comfortable silence settling over them. It worked.

…

“Are you sure this outfit looks alright? Are you _sure_?”

“Yes, I’m fucking sure. You’ve asked me that l-like f-f-f-fuh-five fucking times already, but yes, your goddamn outfit s-s-still looks alright.”

“Oh. Thanks.” Eddie wasn’t _nervous_. He knew he looked good —  not to be conceited (to be completely conceited) but he nearly always did. His jeans clung to his ass just right, and his sweater was set slightly askew. If Bill didn’t want to straight up murder him, he’d probably describe Eddie as looking… almost coquettish.  It wasn’t his outfit that he was unsure about, it was the whole situation that forced him into it.

He really did want to go see Richie’s band play. He told Richie he would, and, moreover — Stan would be there. He’d be there, playing the guitar, and Eddie’s knees felt a little weak even thinking about it. But the thought of being in such a crowded space, a grimy record store basement, no less, made him sick to his stomach. He hated being _close_ to people, and hated being close to people he didn’t know even more. After all, people were disgusting, and even if Eddie knew he wasn’t as delicate as he’d been led to believe, the thought of people breathing and coughing into his face, the thought of germs and sweat and _bodies_ made him — sick.

“You’re g-gonna be fine, okay? We j-just have to. Show our f-f-f-faces. Then, we can go if you really don’t l-l-like it.” Eddie smiled, forced and uncomfortable — but a smile, nevertheless. Thank God for Bill. “I’m… excited. If it g-goes g-good, maybe I can bring b-book boy to a show sometime. We could. Double date.”

“Sounds like you believe in me after all, Big Bill. You and your book boy, me and Stan.”

“Yeah, y-you and Stan. Yep.” He ignored that — Bill had a lot of thoughts about his antics, little faith in Eddie’s chances of ever making out with Stan Uris, and stupid ideas about Eddie and Richie. And, to be fair, Eddie _had_ been talking about Richie all night after their coffee not-date, but that was because they’d been hanging out, and it was rare that Eddie clicked with people like he had with Richie. And they had other friends, but Bill was essentially Eddie’s entire social circle, of course he’d talk to Bill about him. It didn’t matter, either way. “Are we gonna go?”

“Yeah, yeah. Let’s get a move on, Billiam.” He opened the door to their flat, and was immediately hit by a blast of wind. “Jesus, do we live outside? Come on, man, walk fast, I don’t want to be out there longer than we have to be.” Eddie half-ran down the stairs, flying out the door with Bill on his heels. He always walked two paces in front of him when it was _really_ cold, because Eddie was kind of a bitch when it came to that weather, and wanted to get wherever he was going faster, even if the time difference was, all in all, meaningless.

The record store wasn’t far away, and it wasn’t longer than fifteen minutes after they left the apartment, until they were standing in the musty basement of the record store. It was only half-finished, and Eddie stared up at the exposed insulation with a mean look on his face, as though to say _“I dare you to rain dust on me and make me sneeze._ _I fucking dare you.”_ They had gotten there in timely fashion, but the room was already filling up — the band must’ve been popular. Eddie felt a little thrill of excitement break through his disgust; he _knew_ Richie, and he sure as hell was going to _know_ Stan, and their band was popular. It was the coolest he’d ever felt in his life (though, to be fair, that wasn’t saying much.)

Eddie grabbed Bill’s arm, chewing on his lip, as the band took the stage. He knew it was a four-piece thing, some kind of ridiculous indie thing that he _knew_ he wouldn’t like, and he’d never been so excited. They had a girl-drummer, with sharp features that shone even through the darkness and close-cropped red hair, and a stocky-looking bassist who looked serious and soft, all at once. Then, closer to the front, was Stan on the guitar, looking as neat and pressed as Eddie had ever seen him — and he was feeling _blessed_ for it.

And then, fiddling with his keyboard, was Richie. He wasn’t wearing jorts anymore. He actually looked _good_. He shoved Bill, nodding up to the stage. “That’s Richie. And _that_ is Stan. I don’t know the other two, though.” The volume of the place was already too high to really hear Bill, even without the music, but Eddie was pretty sure his response wasn’t anything more than an ‘mmph’. If it was, he didn’t want to hear it.

The lights dimmed, and the band started playing. It wasn’t music Eddie would listen to on his own, but he liked it. The lyrics were actually _nice_ , they had a distinct kind of sweetness and poeticism that he usually didn’t find in indie music, and they were talented musicians. Eddie could very well tell why the basement was packed. More than that, he was actually enjoying himself. He wasn’t one to dance in public (that was saved for nights of A-ha blasting on his speakers, jumping around the studio in boxers, singing into a whisk) but he was bobbing his head to the rhythm, and he wasn’t consumed with fears of how disgusting everything must’ve been, so he had to consider it a win.

Stan, as he’d expected, was mouth-watering. He didn’t have the same star-quality stage presence Richie did (and Eddie chalked that up to his acting, since he really knew how to command the stage), but Eddie’s type had always been the quiet guy in the corner of the room. He didn’t know a lot about music, but he had a feeling that Stan was genuinely very good. He was determined to speak to him after the show, to introduce himself, at the very least.

Before he’d realized it, the bulk of the show had passed. Richie leaned into the mic, voice rough from a night of singing. “Hey, folks, this is our last track of the night. Some guy in the audience told me he likes a little 80s, and you folks know that I give the people what they want, right?” The crowd cheered, and Eddie felt flames crawl up his neck. He threw a panicked glance to Bill, who met his look with a raised eyebrow. “Let’s get a little weird tonight. This is Let’s Dance. Hope you like it, cutie.”

Bill leaned in close, speaking right into Eddie’s ear so he wouldn’t miss it. “ _Cuh-c-c-cutie_?”

Eddie had already checked out, though. His heart was beating to the sound of the music and, unlike the rest of the night, his eyes were trained on Richie. He couldn’t shake the stunned expression from his face, but there was something really incredible going on here — he understood, for a moment, why the obnoxious loudmouth in his Economies of Sex class was such a darling in the acting department. He was _magnetizing_.

The song faded out, and Richie addressed the crowd again, waving off with a grin. “We were Bomb and Buffalo, thanks for coming out. We’ll see you next time.”

Some music started playing from the speakers, and the band evacuated the stage. Eddie took Bill’s arm and dragged him to the front of the room, pushing through the people and trying hard not to think about how gross the whole thing was. It reeked of smoke, and his lungs kind of hurt just thinking about it. He could tough it out for a ten-minute conversation.

Through the crowd, he spotted a head of dark, curly hair and tendrils of smoking drifting towards the ceiling. Of course Richie was a smoker; he knew there was something acrid and foul when they’d first met, but he hadn’t been able to place it. He hated that. Hopefully, Stan wouldn’t be either — smoking was a hard no for Eddie, and he’d drop the pursuit in a heartbeat if he was. He wasn’t _really_ asthmatic, but the fear (and the disgust) still remained. He still hadn’t entirely processed the fact that Richie, for all intents and purposes, serenaded him — after only knowing him for a day, too. It wasn’t like they were good friends. Richie had just asked him what kind of music he liked, and then sang it at a show he wasn’t even entirely sure Eddie would go to. How was he supposed to take that?

“Not quite synth, but still pretty good, right?”

So, stupidly, Eddie responded: “Bowie’s great. Thanks.” Bill shook his arm, and it took Eddie a full beat to realize he was still holding it. “Great show, guys. Really good — I’m glad I came. This,” he said, shaking Bill’s arm, “is my roommate, Bill.”

For some reason beyond his understanding, the girl-drummer elbowed Richie, smirking. He scowled at her before grinning again, taking another drag from his cigarette. “I’m glad you made it, Eds. Good to meet you, Bill. From the way Eddie talked about you, though, I was expecting some kind of matronly bitch — Eddie, old sport, if this is your idea of a ball and chain, lock me the fuck up.” He could almost hear Bill blushing.

“Aren’t you going to introduce us?” Stan said, poking Richie in the gut.

“Yeah, yeah, fuck off, Uris. Band, this is Eddie — I know him from school, we’re doing a project together — and, uh, Bill, whomst I know through Eddie, I guess. Eddie and Bill, this is Stan ‘the Man’ Uris, Guitar God by night and tight-ass accountant by day,” which earned him a dirty look from Stan and another jab, “Beverly Marsh, lady-drummer extraordinaire and the coolest lesbian you’ll ever fucking meet, and Ben Hanscom, the softest boy in the world, with ladykiller fingers and a poetic ability to rival… a poet. I don’t know any poets, but he could rival one.”

Beverly snorted, and Ben frowned a bit. “You can’t name _one poet_? I _just_ gave you my copy of On the Road, come on.”

“Benny, baby, I love you, but you’re no Kerouac.”

Eddie felt bizarrely shy, almost intrusive on the moment. It was clear that these four really knew each other well — they had a comfortable kind of back-and-forth he only really knew with Bill. Part of him was a little jealous; he’d always wanted a group of friends like that, but on the other hand, he was _intrigued_. They seemed like really good people. Potential friends, even.

“It’s nice to meet you guys. Stan, you go to our school, right? I think we’ve had a class together. Or… something.” Stan looked vaguely surprised, and Eddie deflated a little.

“Oh, maybe. I think I’ve seen you around, yeah.” This wasn’t enough to deter him, necessarily, but it took the wind out of his sails, just a little. There was no way he’d charm his way into Stan’s pants that night. He was going to be a tough one to crack. “Either way, it’s nice meeting you formally, Eddie. Thanks for putting up with Richie, here. Can’t have him failing out yet.”

Beverly was staring intently at Bill all through this exchange, and smiled widely. “Hey, I know you. You go to OCAD, right? You’re in the painting program.”

His eyes went wide, and Eddie half wanted to elbow him and whisper _“She’s a lesbian, Bill, don’t kid yourself,”_ but since he had at least an ounce of self-control, he didn’t. “I do. You’re in… the material design program. T-textiles, right?” He was speaking slowly, trying to control his words. Eddie preferred the stutter, honestly. It took him longer this way.

“Yeah, that’s the one. Did you do that watercolour? The new one, hanging in the print room?”

“Yeah, I did.”

“It’s really good.”

Eddie had to step in, before Bill did something irresponsible (like fall in love with a lesbian — again.) “Ben, do you go to our school too? Or…”

“Yeah, I’m in the architecture program.”

Richie grinned, and flung an arm over Ben’s shoulder. “We got a smart one over here. Seriously, dude knows his shit. Good thing, too, since I’m gonna mooch off him forever for putting up with his fucking… architecture drawings right now.” Ben flushed, not shimmying out from under Richie, not looking totally displeased, but not responding, either.

They chattered for a little while longer, just pleasantries — Eddie didn’t actually get much of a chance to speak to Stan, and didn’t try as much as he should’ve, maybe. Most of the conversation was spent bantering with Richie, an easy back-and-forth. Something about Stan made him a little nervous — maybe how much he hyped the guy up in his mind. Next time would be better, he was sure of it — assuming, of course, that there was a next time at all.

“Sh-shit, Eddie, look at the time. We gotta go.” Eddie pulled out his phone, and glanced at the clock — it was unreasonably late. He had an early class the next day, and was already kicking himself. He glanced up, apology on his lips, when Stan grabbed his phone from his hands.

“Here’s my number. I’ll send you the rest of our contacts, you send me Bill’s. It was nice meeting you guys. We should all hang out sometime.” Stan’s fingers brushed his own when he handed the phone back, and Eddie felt himself flush, grateful for the darkness.

“Yeah, of course. Cool, cool. Sounds good. Uh, Richie, we should — meet up to work on the project soon. I’ll text you? When Stan gives me your number?”

Richie grinned at him. Eddie couldn’t help but grin back.

…

For some inexplicable reason, Eddie decided to savour the cold on the way back. That meant that, instead of sprinting back to his apartment, he walked alongside Bill like a normal, sane person. His lips were quirked into a small smile, riding the high of getting Stan’s number.

“I d-don’t know what the fuck to make of that,” Bill said, breaking the silence. He was frowning slightly, to Eddie’s surprise.

“I think it went well.”

“I th-think you’re, uh, fucked.”

…

“He’s not fucking his roommate!” Bev socked Richie in the shoulder, grinning.

“He might still be, uh, with his roommate. He didn’t let go of the guy’s arm the whole time,” Ben said evenly, but he was smiling too — they all were.

“He’s not fucking his fucking roommate! He said _roommate_ , not _boyfriend_ or S.O. And even if he is, it’s _definitely_ not a romantic thing. He’s not fucking his fucking roommate!” Richie sang the last word Jean-Ralphio-style, pushing himself up to the front seat of the van.

“I’m trying to _drive_ , Richard. But I _also_ don’t think he’s fucking his roommate.” Out of all of them, Stan was the only one not smiling. If it did work out, he’d be happy for Richie. Eddie really _did_ seem like a nice guy, but — something felt a little off. He had a terrible feeling about the whole situation. “I sent him your number. Did he text you?” He had, after all, gotten back to Stan immediately, a polite _‘Thank you’_ with the same kind of proper grammar Stan insisted on.

“Uh.” Richie checked his phone. No new messages. “No, but he will. Just you wait, Stanthony. The seductive powers of Richie Tozier are endless.”

(He did, in fact, end up getting a text from one Eddie Kaspbrak. “Thursday? Jimmy’s?” He smiled so hard Ben was sure Stan had fallen down the stairs, and almost called 911.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter: a party, mayhaps?
> 
> catch me @homokaspbrak on tumblr and lmk what you think!!
> 
> also thank you to everyone for the comments on the last chapter <33 it really motivated me to pump this one out so ,, it's v much appreciated!!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He paused for a moment as he flicked the kettle on, smile playing at his lips. “Are you saying I haven’t already roller-skated into your dreams? Picture it, these shorts, knee-pads ‘cause I don’t want to break all my fuckin’ bones, some disco playing…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short, late update 2day bc im terrible and school is kicking my whole ass but !! it's all i've got lmao
> 
> some fluff, some more cooking, and set up for the next disaster of a chapter

It had been maybe two weeks since the show, but it hadn’t left Eddie’s mind at all. Through the project, Richie and his band had weaved their way into Eddie and Bill’s otherwise very private lives. Maybe it was an unhealthy co-dependence, but Eddie had always figured that other close friends weren’t necessary, as long as he had Bill — friends in passing, to sit next to in classes and to invite him to parties, yeah, but nobody he really _cared_ about, if he was being perfectly frank.

Over the past couple weeks, though, he’d found himself growing closer with Richie (and his friends) than he had thought possible in such a short time. Something about them just fit — if they were falling over one another in some rundown college bar, or taking up what was meant to be a communal table at a coffee shop, it was almost like… missing pieces, falling together. Between his bickering with Richie and Richie’s banter with Stan, there was an edge of harshness, maybe, that could use balance, but even so — it felt like a good fit.

He couldn’t believe that all this happened because of some stupid group project — _because he wanted to make out with Stan Uris_. Even more so, he couldn’t believe the project was almost over — one last work session and they’d be through.

He was pretty sure they’d keep being friends, after all this was over. After all, he still hadn’t hooked up with Stan — he’d barely even _spoken_ to Stan, and that was the whole point of this escapade, wasn’t it? Becoming friends with these lunatics was just a bonus.

There was a rapping at the door, cutting off his train of thought. Eddie scrambled, completely unprepared, only opening the door after about thirty knocks, still pulling on shorts. He hadn’t expected Richie to be – well, on time.

“Hey, come in.”

His hair was mussed, an early-December sprinkle of snow tossed across his curls, like icing sugar or dandruff. He was dressed appropriately for the weather, a jacket that somehow managed big, even on him, wrapped around a narrow frame. It made Eddie think of a scarecrow — or if someone draped a trucker jacket on a telephone pole. Eddie, on the other hand, was terribly underdressed — tiny gym shorts he’d taken a liking to in his youth and never shook, a tee-shirt from Bill’s school, three sizes too big. There was a hoodie on the bed that he hadn’t decided to wear or abandon; he ran warm, but the apartment was drafty and sometimes extra layers were necessary. With the door open, though, all the cold air was getting in, and in an instant, he was shaking like a leaf.

He ushered Richie in, scowling (but not really). “Glad you made it. I didn’t know if you’d actually show up on time, I’m shocked.”

“I like to keep you on edge. No fun in routine.” Eddie strongly disagreed, but didn’t see the point in making that disagreement known. “And I’d never miss a minute with you, Eds — you know you got me whipped. Speaking of boys you’ve got whipped — where’s Billy-boy?” This was the first time Richie had been in Eddie’s apartment — he’d seen the outside of the building, picking Eddie up or dropping him off, but they’d planned what would be the last study session before their project was due at his place. It wasn’t the best to study, since there was only one room and two inhabitants, but it worked out this time.

“Big Bill’s got a date with book-boy.” Bill still hadn’t told Eddie book-boy’s (or buh-b-b-book-boy) name, partially because it just hadn’t come up (and for once in his life, Eddie was too busy to nag and pry) and partially because Eddie would inevitably stalk him on social media and make bold claims about his fitness to be Bill’s date without knowing him even a little. Bill usually waited until Eddie met his dates in-person to introduce them and give Eddie any significant details, lest Eddie go all guard-chihuahua on them, on behalf of Bill’s delicate heart. Richie was peering around the apartment, shaking his hair out right over Eddie’s freshly mopped kitchen floor. “Jesus Christ, can you not do that?”

“And let it melt, ruining these _perfect curls_? Eddie, my love, how could you even _suggest_ that?” With a hand over his heart, he sighed, wrapping Eddie up in a half-hug with his free arm. Eddie shrugged out of it, frowning to hide a smile, and crossed his arms. Actor, indeed. “So, where’re your digs? Bed in the living room is a choice — a forward one, but I can respect it.”

“Perfect curls _where_? All I see is a fuckin’ bird’s nest.” He bumped hips with Richie as he walked past him, into the kitchen. “Want anything to drink? We don’t have any coffee, but we have a hell of a tea variety. This is the whole thing, don’t go snooping around for more — I _told_ you it was a studio, dumbass.”

“… how long have you been living here? And tea, I guess? What kinds do you have?”

“We moved into this place in Freshman year, and just kept it. And I’ve got… blueberry, raspberry, ginseng, sleepy time, green tea, green tea with lemon, green tea with lemon and honey, liver disaster, ginger with honey, ginger without honey, vanilla almond, white truffle, blueberry chamomile, vanilla walnut, constant comment and... earl grey.”

“Did you just quote Scott Pilgrim at me? Eddie Kaspbrak, you fuckin’ nerd, you never told me. When are you gonna roller skate into my dreams? And… if you actually have it, ginger with honey sounds good, Eddie-spaghetti.”

“Don’t call me that. I didn’t _not_ quote Ramona Flowers. But I also… designed our tea cabinet after that scene. It’s mostly Bill, though, I swear to God. He’s the biggest graphic novel nerd. It’s the illustrator in him — I think he wants to do that, even more than, like, painting and portraiture.” He paused for a moment as he flicked the kettle on, smile playing at his lips. “Are you saying I haven’t already roller-skated into your dreams? Picture it, these shorts, knee-pads ‘cause I don’t want to break all my fuckin’ bones, some disco playing…”

He could hear Richie swallow from across the room, and smirked to himself. The back-and-forth they had going was endlessly entertaining, and Eddie couldn’t help but lean into it — a little flirting never hurt nobody, and frankly, it was a good boost after the repeated beatings he was taking on the Stan front. Whenever they hung out as a group, Stan was nice to him, but it felt like he just wasn’t engaging. And Eddie didn’t give up easy, but he could take a hint, too; it would be easier if the messages weren’t so mixed. They’d be getting on, clicking, grooving, and then Stan would just pull back. It was bizarre, and a little ego-damaging. Thank God for Richie’s endless flirtatiousness.

Eddie knew he was attractive, and he knew they got along _really_ well, but Richie’s habit of flirting loudly, lewdly and unabashedly with everyone he saw was assurance enough that this wouldn’t snowball into something he didn’t want to deal with. If you were to ask Eddie, when he was feeling particularly vulnerable, why he’d never had a real relationship, he’d say it was because he was a lot to handle — but what he wouldn’t say, what he’d _never_ say, and maybe didn’t even realize, was that he did it on purpose. He put up these walls of crazy, high-maintenance weirdness, because letting people in was scary. Eddie was scared of a lot of things: his mother hunting down his apartment, dying of a secondary infection in a hospital, accidentally eating meat in a restaurant without realizing it and getting sick, and letting people see him for what he really was. Only a few people had seen him for who he was, and only one was really willing to stick around. Eddie liked to leave. He didn’t like being left.

This was too heavy to think about for a study session, though, and the kettle was whistling, so he stopped that particular train of thoughts in its tracks, and made up two cups of ginger with honey tea. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that Richie had already settled down on the kitchen table, pulling his laptop out. Taking the mugs over, Eddie handed Richie his, and took a sip of his own.

“You’re quiet, Eddie-Spaghetti. What’re you thinkin’ about? Me, hopefully.”

“I’m thinking about how offended I am at you bringing heterosexuality into this sanctuary with that dumbass line, and where I’m going to bury you if you call me a stupid nickname again.”

Richie snorted. “You know you love it, Eds. Eddie-bear.”

“Oof.”

“Really don’t like that one, huh?” To his credit, Richie looked genuinely concerned — brows knitting, mouth screwing up. Eddie didn’t want to talk about it.

“I honestly prefer Eds.”

 “I wish I was recording. I’m never gonna forget you said that. _Eds_.” His easy grin was back, and Eddie couldn’t help but duck his head and smile, even though he was rolling his eyes.

“Shut the fuck up, Richie, don’t call me that.”

Richie reached an arm across the table, knuckles running against Eddie’s. “Oh, babe. You’ve opened the door. I’m _never_ gonna stop calling you Eds now that I know you love it — shh, don’t say anything. I know you want to look tough, but it’s just you and me, boo. No need to front.”

“Oh, fuck off. Come on, Tozier, we’ve got shit to do. Let’s get doing.”

…

Hours passed with Eddie realizing — they’d been so engrossed in their work that they just flew by. This was, perhaps, the first time he’d really felt engaged with the course content, and he’d been doing fine-to-good before, but Richie had a way of talking about this shit that made Eddie almost _care_ , beyond even a business standpoint. He came at it with a feminist perspective that had Eddie almost surprised — not that Richie cared about women, but how refined his ideas were. He was a dummy, but he really wasn’t stupid. There was a funny kind of contrast, too, watching Richie talk about these high-level concepts at a million miles per minute, while tapping his foot, chewing his pen, and looking anywhere but his laptop. They’d been so engrossed in conversation that he almost hadn’t noticed when Richie stomach grumbled, _loudly_. It almost echoed through the apartment, and stopped Eddie in his tracks. “Hungry?”

Richie flushed the slightest red. “Shit. I forgot to eat. ADHD meds, man, they get you.” He closed his laptop up, starting to pack his things away. “I guess I’ll get going — McDicks awaits.”

Eddie scoffed, fingers wrapping around Richie’s wrist. “Stay. I have to make dinner, and I hate cooking for one, so you might as well.”

Richie’s cheeks reddened again, in a way Eddie didn’t fully understand, but he got up from the chair either way, padding over to the kitchen. “Does a stir-fry sound okay to you? Nothing fancy, but it’s still good, you know?”

“Yeah, sure. Sounds good, Eds.”

“Don’t call me that, Rich. You ever thought to maybe not piss off the person cooking for you? I could poison you, y’know. And you wouldn’t even realize ‘til you were dead.”

“You wouldn’t. You love me too much.”

Eddie scoffed at that — rolling his eyes. (His gut, on the other hand, was telling him that Richie was right; he wasn’t going to murder the guy either way, but he’d gotten so attached so quick, he’d probably miss the lug if, for whatever reason, he left Eddie’s life.) “Do you know how to cook rice? Make yourself useful and get that started.”

He chopped the vegetables and cubed the tofu with a practiced kind of deftness as Richie moved around the kitchen behind him, looking through the cabinets for everything he needed. It was actually quiet in the apartment, for a few easy moments — peaceful. The moment felt almost embarrassingly domestic, as he grabbed the sauce ingredients and bumped into Richie, who said nothing but smiled instead, a little too fond. He clicked the stove on, and tossed everything into the wok.

“You’re a real chef, aren’t you?”

Eddie smiled down at the pan, despite himself. “Yeah, actually. Bill and I worked in a restaurant through high school, and my last summer before college, they put me on the line. For some reason, they had Billy on front-of-house, even though he can’t fucking talk. I probably would’ve been a better waiter, though I’d probably mouth off asshole customers, so.” Behind him, Richie snorted.

“I bet. Hey, listen, settle a bet for me and Stan: you and Bill, ever fucked?”

Peaceful, domestic moment _his ass_. “What interest have _you_ got in who I’m fucking?” _And why would Stan give a shit?_ he thought to himself, privately. “But no. He _was_ my first kiss, but that was — eighth grade? So I don’t think it means much anymore. Got the rice in the bowls?”

If Eddie had turned just a moment earlier, he would’ve caught the tail end of a truly dorky fist-pump from Richie, that would’ve raised a lot of questions. But he didn’t — instead, he got Richie looking proud for doing the bare minimum of his bit, rice in bowls. “Yes, chef.”

“Gotta be a little quicker than that if you want to work in _my_ kitchen, Rich.”

When they were finally seated, Richie ate like a beast — he shoveled the food into his mouth so quickly Eddie thought he’d choke, and went back for two more bowls, deeply apologetic for eating all of Eddie’s food each time. Eddie shrugged it off; he wasn’t going to eat nearly that much, and Bill probably wouldn’t be back that night, if his date was going as well as he’d seemed to think it would. When he thought about it, Richie probably needed a shitload of food to keep him going, and what had he said — that he hadn’t eaten that day? Eddie had to swallow the impulse to nag him terribly and swat his shoulder. It wasn’t his business, but he also didn’t want Richie passing out in the snow. The in-between, he supposed, was letting Richie eat him out of house and home when he did get hungry.

A fair sacrifice.

“God, Eds, that was really fuckin’ good.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Sorry, sorry. _Chef_ Eds.” Eddie reached across the table and shoved him, still smiling. It was getting late enough that Richie’s roommates were starting to text him, concerned, and they’d finally decided it was time for Richie to head back, though it took several rounds of _‘I’m going to go,’_ and immediately falling back into conversation. But he’d managed to properly extricate himself, all his shit packed away, shrugging his jacket on.

“ _Thanks_. It’s really no big deal, Richie.”

“No, no, it is. Listen, we’re having a party next week. You should come — bring Bill and book-boy, if you want. It’s going to be a riot.”

 “I don’t doubt it. Promise I won’t get arrested.”

Richie stepped out the door, calling behind him — “No promises, babe!”

Eddie snorted as the door slammed shut.

…

A block away from Eddie’s apartment, Richie lit a cigarette, holding it between his teeth as he typed out a text to Beverly.

_“so I’m FUCKED”_

_“what happened, babe?”_

_“he fuckging cooked me dinner that’s what happened”_

He took a long drag of his cigarette as his phone started buzzing, and swiped to answer it, Bev’s soft voice on the other end.

“Oh, babe, you’re so boned.”

“Don’t I know it?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> find me @homokaspbrak and lmk what y'all think !!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> richie has a party, eggs are scrambled, therapy is had. it's a disaster.

Something about Eddie that few people expected but came to know quite quickly: he handled his liquor like a fucking _champ_. He didn’t drink a lot. He was too busy for it, and he and Bill, almost sickeningly domestic, were fine just chilling at home without the drinks. So people didn’t realize. They made a lot of assumptions, though, based on his stature and general demeanor — the tiny tight-ass probably never drank, and probably couldn’t handle it. They were dead wrong, though. Eddie drank a _lot_ in high school, probably too much, and he could handle it. Most famously, he’d done six shots of tequila and went on to speak to the officer that had knocked on the party host’s door, talking him down from going in (where there was _copious_ underage drinking), passing as fully sober. Eddie Kaspbrak could handle his fucking liquor, yeah.

Which meant that when he started actually acting tipsy, he’d had way too much. Eddie could handle his liquor outwardly — he never stumbled, his words never slurred — but the handle he held on himself was limited at best, and he didn’t always make the best choices. He was doing a lot better than most would after what must’ve been half a bottle of spiced rum, but he wasn’t doing great, sitting in Richie’s lap, arm wrapped around his neck. Much to Eddie’s sober chagrin, he was kind of a slutty drunk.

He had landed in Richie’s lap after being pushed off of Bill, who was busy flirting with some guy — admittedly very good-looking guy. He had been pissed about it initially, since sober Eddie loved attention, but drunk Eddie _needed_ it, but he was happier for Bill once he was watching from afar. To Richie’s credit, he was being a very good sport about it. He’d told Eddie, prior to Eddie getting smashed, that he didn’t drink — physically, it just made him really sick, really fast. He smelled pretty skunky, though, so Eddie was sure he was getting his chucks elsewhere. They were talking about everything and nothing, rambling on and on and bouncing off the other in a teasing kind of back-and-forth. It was the easy kind of conversation Eddie found himself slipping into with Richie, time and time again. Somehow, every time they spoke, it devolved into bickering, and Eddie _loved_ it. He had the vague sense that Richie was the type who needed to talk more than he needed air or sunlight, and when he stopped, he would wither like a sunflower shut up in a dark room — in a lot of ways, Richie reminded (drunk) Eddie of a sunflower, actually. Towering, gangly, beautiful, bright. He told him so.

“And honestly, you know? Fuck your narrow mindedness if you don’t think aliens are real. Aliens are real and I love them, and I really fuckin’ hope they know that—”

And Eddie leaned in close to Richie, covering the already-minimal distance between them, whispering _right_ in Richie’s ear as he was slung around him: “You’re like a sunflower, did you know that? Sunflower boy.”

“What?” It stopped Richie dead in his tracks, and if Eddie were to shift his hand from Rich’s shoulder to his chest, he’d feel the thumping of his friend’s heart, going a million miles a minute. “I’m a sunflower?”

“ _No_ , you’re _like_ a sunflower, because you’re a boy, and boys can’t be flowers, but they can be a lot like them, you know? Jesus, I don’t know what you’re not getting about this.” His words were coated in a tone of mock-exasperation, but he was smiling against Richie’s ear.

Things Eddie didn’t know: that sunflowers represented adoration.

Things Eddie also didn’t know: Richie was beginning to adore him more than anything.

It was a disastrous problem, especially with Eddie in his lap, clinging to him like a koala. But Eddie didn’t know that. He just knew that he was way too drunk, giggling in Richie’s lap, while he was red-faced and struggling not to be, and he was having the best damn time he’d had in a long time. “You’re so bright, baby,” he mumbled, head curling into Richie’s neck. Synth chords flooded the room as he spoke, and his ears perked up. “Did you put this on for me?”

“You’re not that special, Eddie-Spaghetti.” Still, he nodded, a big toothy grin across his face.

Eddie uncurled from his seat on Richie’s lap, and took his hand, pulling them both up. “Let’s dance, Richie Tozier. But only if you know my real goddamn name.” Donna Summers was crooning in the background, and Eddie’s fingers were interlocked with Richie’s, leading him towards the middle of the room, moving to the beat.

_I Feel Love_. He didn’t feel love, but he sure as hell felt something. Something good.

…

Eddie sat up, bleary eyed. The bed felt cold, and he reached out, searching for Bill — his hand hit an unfamiliar quilt, instead, a far cry from the flannel comforter. Shivering, he pulled it around himself, as he tried to re-orient. He was in an apartment that was distinctly dissimilar from his own. Richie’s apartment. _Right_. Glancing down, he was still clothed, but not in the outfit he’d gone out in. His button-up and wool sweater had been replaced with a fucking _Thrasher_ hoodie, at least two sizes too big. He still had his boxers on, though. He wasn’t quite hungover, but he spotted a tablet of ibuprofen on the bedside and took it anyways, swallowing the pill dry as he tried to blink himself awake.

Though the exact details of the past couple hours were yet to be recalled, he knew that he’d gone home with Richie. He’d been drunk — Richie hadn’t been. What did he tell Eddie? He didn’t drink? He swung off of the bed, and he realized he wasn’t in a bedroom at all — it was set up like a living room with an unfolded futon, with an open archway leading to what Eddie could only assume was a hallway. Bare feet padded across the wood floor, closer to the other room; Eddie heard something sizzling, and Richie’s voice coming from a room down the hall.

“ _Umma_ , I’m fine, I’m eating, my apartment is clean. Don’t — don’t _aigu_ me. I’m taking the omega-3s. No, I can’t talk to Dad, not right now, I have someone over — _no_ , he’s not Korean, and he’s just a friend, _Umma_ , I have to go, okay? _Bo-go-shi-peo_. Love you. Love you! Bye!”

Eddie smirked, still only half-awake. “Taking your omega-3s?”

Richie scoffed. “God, no. But if I told her that, she’d come here and drag me home herself. Have you ever seen a fish oil pill? Them motherfuckers are big. I don’t even know why I’m supposed to take them.” He _had_ seen some fish oil pills in his lifetime, as they’d made up one part in a formidable multi-step routine in his personal pharmacy. They were big motherfuckers, Eddie would concede, though an important part of one’s diet. Richie put on a crude Asian accent, wagging a finger at Eddie. “Richie- _ah_ , if you don’t take your omega-3s, you’re going to get sick. Don’t come cry to me when you need new glasses. Your eyes are already bad.” He dropped the accent when he saw Eddie cringe, thankfully.

The kitchen was, to Eddie’s great surprise, fairly well-kept. He suspected it had more to do with Richie’s roommates than Richie himself — he was fairly certain the bed he was crashing in was Richie’s, and the living room/bedroom was a veritable disaster. It looked like a hurricane hit it. Eddie pulled up a chair, still wrapped in a quilt, and blinked at Richie again. He had his glasses on, hair sticking straight up. For a brief moment, Eddie’s mind betrayed him, one word on repeat: _pretty_. He shook it off.

They, after all, were friends.

“Hungry? I’m making eggs.”

“Oh, God, please. I’m starving. Jesus Christ.” Richie grinned devilishly, shaking the pan.

“Yeah, you must be hungover as _fuck_. Big Bill said he’d never seen you that drunk before. How much did you drink?”

Eddie cringed again — he’d forgotten how much he’d had to drink. Hopefully, he hadn’t embarrassed himself too badly. “Probably… half a bottle of rum.”

“How the hell are you _alive?_ ” Richie’s jaw nearly hit the floor, and Eddie blinked at him blankly.

“Willpower, mostly. Rage, also.”

Richie was moving around the kitchen again, grabbing plates and spooning the eggs onto it. “Salt and pepper?” Eddie nodded, trying to suppress a yawn. “I figured it’d be that. You’re a little firecracker, huh? Much sweeter when you’re drunk, though.”

Eddie snorted, shrugging. “Don’t get used to it.”

“It was pretty cute, Eds. Sunflower, huh?”

Eddie’s eyebrows creased, too lost to even scold Richie for the unwanted nickname use. “What?” His response hung in the air for a long, uncomfortable minute. Eddie didn’t know what he’d said, and Richie didn’t know what Eddie remembered — or what he’d want to be reminded of. He dropped his grin, and shook his head.

“Nothin’, boo. Just something I’m going to lord over you for the rest of, uh, forever.” He dumped the eggs on the plate, and handed it to Eddie. “Here. Manga.”

Eddie blinked. “Did you just say _manga_?” He smothered the impulse to throw his plate, and swallowed down the fondness trying to crawl up his throat — it was way too gentle an emotion for the situation. “Manga?”

“Yeah, manga. You know. Italian.” Richie shrugged, setting the pan down. “Oh — oh, shit, wait. Can I play you something? I’ve been working on a few songs.” He was already halfway out the kitchen, gangly limbs all but trailing behind him.

Despite himself, Eddie giggled. “God, Richie, do you think I’m going to run out on you? Yes, you can play me something. Breakfast and a show, Tozier, you’re a good host.”

“Umma taught me right, Eds,” he called, from some other room. After a beat, he emerged, guitar in hand, triumphant smile on his face. He hopped up on the counter, sliding the strap over his shoulder, and started picking at the strings. “I’ve been working on something a little soft. These are just covers, but the people? The people love ‘em. And anyways, I’m no Benny, I can’t write poetry like she can.”

“I didn’t know you could play guitar — I thought you were on the keyboard?” Eddie watched intently, as Richie plucked the strings. _Oh_.

“I can play a few instruments. I learned the piano first, but the guitar’s pretty easy to pick up from there. I can also play the bass, the melodica, the fellatio…”

“The _what_.”

“Oh. The flute. Yeah.”

Part of Eddie couldn’t believe Richie tried to brush off calling a flute a fellatio, but a bigger part of him couldn’t believe he was just going to let it slide. He was getting so _soft_. It was disgusting. He took another bite of eggs, and motioned for Richie to keep going.

“Some agent told me the more instruments I knew, the better, so I just kept learning them, you know? Maybe I’ll be in the next Whiplash. Or the next Camp Rock, which would be even better. I can definitely pull off Joe Jonas-heartthrob, right?” He winked, and Eddie narrowed his eyes — in jest, sure, but he was also getting a little impatient, waiting for Richie to play. “Anyways, here’s Wonderwall. Kidding. Kidding!”

He started strumming something — simple, understated, eyes fluttering closed. “I love how your eyes close, whenever you kiss me. And when I’m away from you, I love how you miss me. I love the way your kiss is always heavenly, but darling, most of all – I love how you love me.”

He stopped, flushing slightly. Eddie’s mouth hung open, just a little. It was so beautiful, and slow, and strikingly intimate — Richie’s eyes weren’t even open, and Eddie still felt like he was being looked right into. He gulped. “That was… really beautiful, Richie. That’s a great song.”

Richie shrugged, glancing away. His eyes seemed to be landing everywhere but Eddie — a deep contrast to the intensity from a moment before. There was a lot of that with Richie, he’d noticed. “I didn’t write it. Oh, I’ve got another one, though — this one I learned for you. It’s still not synth, since I _refuse_ to try and play Duran Duran on the piano, since I respect myself, but it’s Queen. You like Queen, right?”

“I’m gay, Richie, what do you think?”

“Good.” He grinned at that, and Eddie rolled his eyes. He started plucking at the strings again, and took a deep breath. “I’m one card short of full deck, I’m not quite the shilling. One wave short of a shipwreck, I’m not at my usual top billing. I’m coming down with a fever, I’m really out at sea — this kettle is boiling over, I think I’m a banana tree.” Eddie covered his mouth with hand, suppressing giggles — Richie had this crazy grin, putting on an English accent, the same affectations as Eddie could remember Freddie Mercury doing, surprisingly well. He hopped off the counter, and walked towards Eddie, still strumming, shimmying his shoulders — as best he could. “I’m knitting with only one needle, unravelling fast, it’s true. I’m driving only three wheels these days, but, Eddie-dear, how about you?” He dropped the guitar, bowing down and offering Eddie his hand. With a laugh, Eddie swatted it away, clapping.

“Bravo, Richie, bravo. God, that was so good. You’re such a ham.”

Richie took another bow, and started strumming another song. Eddie savoured it; he had a nagging feeling, in the back of his mind, that he could get used to this far too easily.

…

Eddie didn’t get home until mid-morning. Breakfast could only go on for so long, and he had to do the walk-of-shame sometime. Still, it was nearing ten when he made it back to the apartment, and between Richie’s place and his own, he’d tired himself out again. Despite having a great time with Richie, he felt so fraught and tense that, when he threw open the door, all he could do was toss his jacket off and fall into bed.

Directly in-between Bill and the cute guy from the party.

Eddie didn’t even have the energy — emotional or physical — to bring himself to get back up.

“Bill. Introduce me.”

Bill looked far less perturbed than he should’ve been, maybe, though they really didn’t have any barriers anymore, so having expectations of Eddie would be a little foolish. “Eddie, this is Mike. B-b-book boy.”

‘Mike’ shifted beside Eddie, and raised an eyebrow, propping himself up on an elbow. _God_ , Eddie thought to himself, _Bill did good on this one_. “Book boy?” Bill shrugged, small smile on his lips, and Eddie felt a little nauseous as how cute-new-romance it all was. “I guess that’s fair. I am, uh, Mike. Book boy — I work at a library. I’m trying to be an archivist, actually, but I don’t think archivist-boy has much of a ring to it.”

Eddie, still lying mostly face-down in the bed, stuck his hand out. Mike took it, and gave it a solid shake — he had warm hands, soft and broad, slightly calloused. Trustworthy hands. It only took Eddie a moment to decide that he liked him a great deal.

“Sorry for interrupting the sleepover, Librarian Mike. I’m just dealing with some mild emotional turmoil of unknown, possibly boy-related, origin, and I need my therapist-roommate to help my stupid, gay ass out. You’re welcome to stay, as long as you don’t give terrible advice.”

Mike paused for a moment. He would, most certainly, give terrible advice. He stayed anyways.

Eddie looked at Bill, stealing a pillow and propping himself up under it. “I was at Richie’s this morning. And last night. But you knew that part. You probably knew the other part, too, but you might be an idiot, I don’t know.”

“I knew. Did you h-hook up?”

Eddie gave Bill a strange look — features twisting in a way that almost spelled out _‘what the hell?_ ’ “No. What would give you that impression?”

“Slutty Eddie m-made an appearance. I told Richie how f-f-fucked up you were, though, so I’m glad no m-moves were made. I’d have to kick his ass.”

“Jesus Christ. Thanks for protecting my virtue, Bill. Actually, that’s what I have to talk about — Richie, I mean. Do you think he’s into me?” Bill didn’t say anything — he just laughed, and Mike snorted, too. “Oh, Mr. Librarian thinks it’s funny, too, huh?”

Mike shook his head. “No, man. Well, a little. I know Richie pretty well. We used to work together, before I started at the library. That’s why I was at the party. The way he was looking at you? Man. I’d never seen him so dopey for anyone.”

Eddie slammed his head into the pillow. “ _Argh_. Ugh. _Aaaah_.” He yelled into the pillow, just a little, before looking up at them again. “I had an inkling this morning. He made me breakfast.”

“He d-didn’t.”

“He _did_. And he _sang_ to me. I’m such an idiot.”

“You kind of are. Sorry.”

He gave Mike a death glare. “That’s not helpful, book-boy. Anyways. I feel weird. I kind of want to smash my face against his face, you know? But not in a I-want-to-make-out-with-you way. I have a low-grade stomach ache whenever I’m around him. A one on the pain scale. But… Stan, you know? He’s still. So hot. God. God!”

“It s-sounds like you’ve g-got a crush, Eddie.”

“Shut the hell up. That’s literally so stupid. I’m not _twelve_. I can’t believe you’d even say that. I haven’t had a crush in _years_.”

“I know, and it’s r-r-ridiculous. You can’t keep… shutting yourself off, Eddie. P-put yourself out there. Richie seems nice. He really l-likes you.”

“I don’t even know if I’m into him, Bill.”

“Eddie? You’re wearing a-a-a Thrasher sweater. That’s n-not yours. That’s his.”

“Maybe so.”

“Wait — catch me up, what’s the thing with Stan?”

“He’s a gremlin.” Bill said, before Eddie could start.

“I’m _not_ a gremlin,” Eddie shoved Bill, scowling. “I… kind of. Became friends with Richie so I could make out with Stan. I had a whole plan, it’s kind of falling apart, it’s fine, it’s not something worth dwelling on, let’s keep moving. So if I have a ‘crush’ on Richie,” air-quotes around the _crush_ , “what am I supposed to do about it?”

“You t-tell him, dumbass.”

“God, is it really that simple? Jesus Christ.” Bill buried his head in his hands and groaned, and Mike snorted again. “I guess… I’ll tell him tonight? I’m going to text him, one second.”

Eddie rolled over, half-onto Bill, and pulled his phone from his pocket. _‘I’m giving you your stupid fake skater sweater back. When’_ He showed the text to Mike, specifically, shielding it from Bill. “Here, book-boy. You tell me if it’s good. Bill’s biased against me.”

Mike shrugged. “It looks fine to me, man.” That was enough approval for Eddie, and he sent it off. Not a minute later, he got a response. _‘tonigihts good. 7???’_

…

At ten-past-seven, Eddie knocked on Richie’s door, sweater in a tote bag. Richie opened the door, looking half-asleep, glasses pushed up onto his head. It was holding his curls back. He looked absolutely ridiculous. Eddie was going to have a stroke.

“Hey, Eddie-Spaghetti. How’s it hanging?”

“Don’t call me that, but hey. Here’s your stupid fake-skater sweater back.” He paused for a moment. “Richie, do you even skate?”

“Do I _look_ like someone who can skate?” He smirked, though, like it was something to be proud of.

“God. I fucking hate you.”

“Do you, Eds?”

“No, and it’s really stupid, isn’t it? God, I’m dumb.” With that, he grabbed onto Richie’s collar, and pulled him into a kiss. It took a moment for Richie to kiss back, and in that moment Eddie feared he’d made a terrible mistake, but — Richie started kissing back. He wasn’t going to make out in Richie’s hallway — even though, after a moment kissing Richie, he had the impulse, but he pulled back anyways. “Oh. Oh, yeah, that’s definitely it. I thought — Stan, you know, right? But, no, it’s definitely you.”

Richie looked absolutely dazed as he returned to full height, barely looking at Eddie. “I — you — Stan, _what_?”

Eddie panicked. He hadn’t meant to say that, but the words had spilled out before he could stop himself. “I… was into Stan. That’s how this whole thing started. It’s a really long story, Rich, but I’m into you, I swear.”

Confusion turned to something worse, that Eddie couldn’t quite put his finger on — the beginning of upset, maybe. “You’re into Stan?”

“Well, I was.”

Richie paused for a moment. “Oh. Then perish.” And he slammed the door in Eddie’s face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> find me @ homokaspbrak and send me your thoughts!
> 
> and i know this is a hell-chapter, guys, but i swear . it's almost over . i swear


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> By the time he’d gotten home, Mike was gone, Bill was painting, and Eddie had worked himself in a full panic. He was halfway to hyperventilating when Bill looked up at him.
> 
> “Oh, no.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahhhh i can't believe this is at (and that this has taken up a FULL month of my life... good god...)
> 
> enjoy!!!

He had stood pounding on Richie’s door for ten full minutes, before he realized that he was really risking one of Richie’s roommates calling the cops on him. It was only after a few more minutes, staring blankly at the door, that he left.

The walk home was long, and Eddie, quite frankly, was a little shell-shocked. It took him most of the walk to figure out exactly what had gone wrong — he didn’t really understand what Richie had grasped from _“Stan, you know, right?”,_ but as his feet dragged through the snow, it was getting clearer and clearer: Richie figured _it_ out, and he didn’t think it was manipulative in the quirky, _oh Eddie_ , kind of way he’d been brushing it off as. Bill wasn’t joking when he said Eddie was a gremlin. He was being genuinely hurtful, and it made his head hurt pretty badly, thinking about it, but his heart hurt worse.

By the time he’d gotten home, Mike was gone, Bill was painting, and Eddie had worked himself in a full panic. He was halfway to hyperventilating when Bill looked up at him.

“Oh, _no_.”

“Bill, it — it all went wrong. God, I really fucked things up.”

Bill stood, and pulled Eddie into a hug, chin resting on the top of Eddie’s head. “You sure did.”

Eddie scowled, but his breathing had steadied either way. “That doesn’t help,” he replied, voice wavering. “I don’t know how to fix this.”

Bill shrugged, and pulled Eddie down onto the bed, arm still wrapped around him. He wasn’t going to cry. He _wouldn’t_. Eddie was dramatic, sure, but he had some capacity to be rational. Sobbing at Bill wouldn’t fix anything. Sitting here wouldn’t fix anything. Eddie was a fixer; he was a stubborn, bullheaded motherfucker, who never let things get away, who always got what he wanted.

He didn’t know how to fix this, though. He didn’t have a plan — and if he was being honest with himself, which he rarely was, it would be better for everyone if he didn’t try. It would be better if he just left Richie alone. It would be better if he let things go to the way they were before, living in this little bubble of just him and Bill, letting Richie and his friends live their lives.

But the thought of going back to the way things were seemed terrible — it was _lonely_ , living like that. Bill wasn’t enough. Eddie had convinced himself, for a long time, that it was okay, trying to be on his own, only lean on one person for anything and barely lean on him at all — but it wasn’t. He realized it wasn’t when he had a taste of something else.

Maybe he would cry, just a little.

Bill pulled him in tighter, Eddie’s head folding into his chest. His shoulders shook, hiccupping sobs mumbled into Bill’s shirt. “I just. I didn’t realize it would be so bad. I didn’t think he’d take it seriously — I didn’t realize it would actually… you know, hurt him.”

“L-listen, it’s going to be okay, Eddie.” He pulled out his phone, and started scrolling. Eddie gave him a blank look, still sniffling. “I’ll put on some music, and we’ll figure this out, okay?”

_‘You could be my unintended choice…’_ filtered from Bill’s phone, and Eddie couldn’t even make eye contact when Bill tried to look at him seriously. “Fuck you, Bill, this doesn’t help even a little bit,” he mumbled, wiping tears from his cheeks. He didn’t know if he wanted to laugh or to cry some more.

He did neither. He slumped into Bill, and listened to the stupid, angsty music. Fucking Muse.

…

At some point, Eddie had managed to fall asleep. He was caught between deep anxiety and emotional turmoil and utter exhaustion, but exhaustion had won out. It was just past midnight — he could see the microwave clock from across the room, blinking in the darkness. His hand sifted through the blankets, but his phone was gone — as was Bill.

He heard a voice from the bathroom, though, light cracked through the door.

“Listen, he’s s-s-sleeping right now, can you call back l-later? Juh-j-j-jesus.” Bill sounded irritated, and Eddie didn’t want to know why. Still, he stood, untangling himself from the sheets, and padded towards the bathroom, knocking on the door.

“Bill? You in there?” He was talking on the phone, _Eddie’s_ phone — that much he’d figured out. He had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, when he was trying to guess who’d be calling him this late, making Bill so mad.

“Y-yeah, Eddie, just a minute.” He heard some tinny shouting from the phone, even through the door — whoever was on the other end had to be angry.

“Bill, who is it? Let me talk to them. Please.” Eddie opened the door, and Bill looked at him, hand over the receiver, shaking his head. _‘Don’t,’_ he mouthed _. ‘Bev. She’s angry.’_

Still, he motioned for the phone again, and Bill relented. He knew he’d be dealing with this at some point, and while he was sure it would be a more productive conversation the next morning, when he’d gotten some real sleep, wasn’t only half-awake, and had given everyone a chance to cool down, he figured he might as well get it over with. Rip off the band-aid, so to speak.

“Hey, Bev, what’s up?” He sounded like he had four cotton balls in his mouth.

“What the fuck do you think is up, you little _shit_?”

“God, I know. I messed up. I’m going to fix it.” He winced. The anger in her voice was palpable — Eddie was a little afraid she’d reach through the phone and strangle him.

“You’re going to fix it, huh? How the _hell_ do you think you’re going to do that? You really fucked it up, Kaspbrak. I swear to God, you _broke_ him.”

“I — I don’t think I —”

“Oh, _clearly not_. You _don’t_ think. Maybe with your dick. I’ve been arguing with Bill for half an hour trying to get him to let me talk to you —” _‘Half an hour’_? Eddie mouthed to Bill, and he shrugged uselessly, “— and quite frankly, now that I’m actually talking to you, I’m speechless. I have no idea what to say. Explain yourself.”

“I genuinely have nothing good to say, Bev. I really fucked up.”

“Start from the beginning.”

“I don’t know — I just. Saw Stan around. And I decided I wanted to. You know.”

“Fuck him?”

“I — I guess. But, I didn’t, like, know Stan, but I knew he was in a band with Richie, so I figured I’d, you know, talk to Richie, see if he could set me up with Stan. But it kind of… spiralled. And I realized how great Richie was, and. Yeah. God, this is such a disaster.”

“Calling it a disaster is a wild understatement, Eddie Kaspbrak. You’ve got to be kidding me. Jesus. Stan is engaged. And Richie — you know he’s had a crush on you all year? Literally since the semester started. _‘This twink in my Econ class, Bev,_ ’ all fucking year. Making stupid jokes for _your_ benefit and waxing poetic every time your stupid ass scowled at him. So incredibly stupid. Do you know how happy he was when you asked him out? God, Eddie, how blind _are_ you? He dropped that song on us with _no time_ to prepare and swore he’d replaced all of us if we fucked up because it was that important. You’re such a fucking asshole.”

Eddie couldn’t reply. He didn’t know what to say.

“Do you know what he’s doing right now? He’s lying in the bathtub, wearing the sweater he lent you. The tub is full, Eddie. It’s been full for… four hours now. He’s wearing all of his clothes. He’s just been sitting, fully dressed, in a tub of cold water for four hours. Ordered fucking _Peeps_ off Postmates. He answered the door in the wet sweater and _got back in the tub_. He’s been playing the same Smiths song the whole time. I’m actually, genuinely, very worried about him.”

“Jesus Christ. He’s going to get sick.” It was the first thing to come to mind — he just blurted it, voice full of concern he knew he wasn’t allowed to have.

“Eddie, you _have_ to fix this. I don’t know how you will, but you have to.”

“I know, Bev.” She hung up, and Eddie looked at Bill. He shrugged again, and Eddie dropped down onto the bathroom floor, legs crossed, head in his hands. “What am I going to do?”

“I d-don’t know, Eddie. Maybe… t-talk to him?”

“That went so well last time.”

“Like. An adult c-conversation. Think about it b-beforehand. And don’t say anything s-stupid, maybe.”

“Good plan, actually. Should I — I should outline this, right. I should write an outline.”

“Christ, I — Yeah. G-go for it.”

…

It had taken him till well into the next evening to gather up the courage to try to talk to Richie. His studio was a whirlwind of discarded papers and boxes of takeout, Bill enabling Eddie eating his feelings, drowning his sorrows in lo mein and fries. He’d finally nailed down exactly what he wanted to say — a long-winded apology, so heartfelt it made his teeth grind and his head ache, slightly nauseous at the thought of being so emotionally vulnerable.

Eddie had walked all the way to Richie’s apartment, full of determination, and lost it at the door.

That’s why he’d been standing in the hallway for ten full minutes, hand poised to knock at the door, when it opened.

There was Richie on the other side.

Richie, towering over him, more than half a foot taller, perfect height for Eddie to rest his head. Richie, in a green-orange striped shirt and a soft, hole-filled cardigan that Eddie wanted nothing more to weave his fingers into. Richie, with the brightest smile he’d ever seen in his life. Richie, who talked like a devil but looked like an angel, a halo of dark, messy curls contrasting the blinding winter sunlight. He looked like the sun.

“Oh, my God.” Unwelcome tears were welling in Eddie’s eyes, and his nose was starting to twitch — he fucked up. He really did.

“What? What do you want?” Richie’s brows were creased, the corner of his mouth downturned; Eddie knew the expression, and hated that he knew it, and hated even _more_ than he was the one who did this to Richie, this time. It was hurt. It was heartbreak.

“I remember — I remember what I said to you when I was drunk that night. Sunflower boy.” He shook his head, wicking his tears away, not able to look Richie in the eye — “I’m being so dramatic, I’m sorry. I just. I fucked up so bad, Rich. I’m so sorry. I didn’t think it would hurt you like this.”

“You really didn’t think, huh?”

“No,” he said, feeling a little resentful, but mostly full of shame, “I didn’t. And I’m so, so sorry. I don’t want this to — fuck up our friendship, though. I didn’t realize I’d care about you this much, but I do, and even if I fucked it up, I don’t want us to stop being friends.”

Richie sighed, exasperated, palm against his forehead, pushing the curls up from his forehead. “You really don’t get it, do you? I have no fucking _clue_ what you want. I have no idea what you’re going for here! You’re just this stupid-hot ball of raw, chaotic, flirtatious energy and it’s driving me fucking _crazy_ , Eds. You come up to me, out of nowhere, after we’ve _never_ spoken, and demand we — what, partner up? For a project? And then we go on a fucking coffee date, with your fucking jasmine tea. And I totally think you’re hitting on me, and I’m grooving with it, and out of nowhere, you’re like _oh, I’m going to bail to make dinner for my committed, long-term S.O_. So I don’t know what to think. And you keep flirting with me, with your whole koala-ass body wrapped around Bill — Big _fucking_ Bill, are you kidding me? Really? I _serenade_ you. I sing you a fucking song. But we flirt, and it’s fun, and we hang out, and your friend and my friends, we all get along _real_ good. And I think, yeah, maybe we could get a thing going, but you keep on teasing me and it never actually goes anywhere, so I don’t know _what_ to think. And when I think, maybe you and Bill aren’t an item, I go to your apartment, and you’ve been sharing a bed for, like, three years? You’ve been best friends your whole lives, and God, how am I supposed to compete with that? But then you cook me dinner, and I feel like a _creep_ because you’ve got something going with Bill and I can’t let go of this stupid crush. It’s a stupid crush! I feel thirteen again! I feel thirteen and ridiculous, Eddie Kaspbrak, that’s what you do to me.”

Eddie opened his mouth to speak, feeling utterly cowed — it was all so much, dropped on him all at once, and he didn’t even know how to respond. Richie narrowed his eyes, and threw his hands up. “No you fucking don’t, Eds. You’re gonna let me say my piece, because I’ve been putting up with your insanity whirlwind for like two months, and I’m head over heels, and you show up on my doorstep _crying_ , really? You crawl all over me at a party, you call me your sunflower and whisper in my ear like I really mean something to you, and we dance all fucking night. I make you breakfast. Do you know the last time I made breakfast for someone? Never. Never is the last time. You’ve got me whipped, holy shit. But then, I think we’re actually getting somewhere, and you drop this ridiculous, fucking absurdist bombshell on me? That you only befriended me to fuck my friend? Do you know how fucked up and mean that is? It’s mean as _hell_ , Eddie. It’s so manipulative. You can’t just treat people like that. And I really don’t deserve to be treated like that, but I know, because I’m so fucking stupid, that if you asked me to, I’d put up with your bullshit for a lifetime and a half, because I’m so stupid and starved for a connection like the one we have. You’re stupid, I’m stupid, and I don’t know whether I want to cry, kick you out or pin you against a wall and never let you leave, because I’m an idiot, I guess.”

“God, you’ve got some lungs on you, don’t you, Rich? Did you take a single breath there?”

“No, I don’t think I did. These singer lungs, Eds. I can go on and on.”

“I know you can, Richie. I do. I don’t think you’ve stopped talking for one whole moment since we met.” Eddie let out a tired, little sigh, a hesitant smile breaking. Richie, for whatever it was worth, smiled too. “Can I kiss you now?”

“Jesus Christ. I thought you’d never ask.” Eddie moved towards Richie, two long strides, threading his fingers through Richie’s hair, pulling him down into a kiss. He felt Richie smiling against his lips, and tasted the salt of his own tears — it was ridiculous, it was stupid, and it wasn’t going to fix anything. He didn’t know how to fix this, and even through the kiss, his stomach twisted at the thought of how badly he had hurt — _was hurting_ Richie.

“You know, I have a whole essay outline in my pocket of things I wanted to say to you.”

“Do you still want to read it?”

“No, God. It’s so stupid. I’ve already embarrassed myself enough.”

“Yeah,” Richie mumbled, pecking him on the lips again. “So are you.”

“I just. I just want things to be okay. I know I fucked up, and I don’t know how to fix it, but I know I need to, because — this is important to me. I can’t believe I’m saying this, God, but Richie, _you’re_ important to me.”

“That’s gay, Eds.”

“Oh, shit, is it? Thanks for letting me know, wouldn’t want to look like some kind of gay standing here, kissing you.”

He kissed Richie again. Things weren’t fixed, but they were on their way.

…

“This one goes out to my _boyfriend_ , who’s super gay, and loves the 80s. You’re the Freddie to my David, baby!”

Eddie groaned, despite his smile. Richie would never stop talking like his basement shows were sold-out stadiums, and Eddie would never stop being endlessly fond of it. He was standing beside Bill at a Bomb and Buffalo show for the second time that month, and the latest in a streak of perfect attendances — he wouldn’t miss a show for the world, even if it stunk of smoke and was way too crowded for his hypochondriac-clean-freak-sensibilities to handle.

This time, unlike the first show he went to, he wasn’t clinging onto Bill, though they were standing together, and he wasn’t staring at Stan. His eyes were on Richie, unwaveringly, and as soon as the chords for Let’s Dance open, he’s dancing — just following instructions, limbs flying, wide, uninhibited grin only Richie can pull from him.

“If you say run, I’ll run with you. If you say hide, we’ll hide — because my love for you would break my heart in two; if you should fall into my arms, and tremble like a flower —”

If there was a sound Eddie loved more than Richie’s voice, shaky and soulful, crooning into a microphone, he’d be hard-pressed to find it, because in this moment, nothing could possibly come close.

Eddie was a stubborn, bullheaded motherfucker, who always got what he wanted.

This time, he hadn’t gotten what he wanted.

But this? This was endlessly better.

_Fuck plans._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> catch me @ homokaspbrak and tell me all your feelings because god knows i have some
> 
> and don't worry!! this isn't it for shipwreckverse. i don't have a sequel planned at the moment, but i know this isn't it for this universe . feel free to send me prompts in this verse too !! i love my stupid angel gays


End file.
